


Freshwater

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuor finds Voronwë in the wrong place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freshwater

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Unfinished Tales or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Maeglin is a strange creature but one of the best fighters in Gondolin—at least for Tuor to spar with; his fire never dies. Tuor tends to win, much to Maeglin’s irritation, but Tuor’s no more arrogant for it and agreeably endures the bitter teasing that follows him when he leaves—he doesn’t have the strength of stamina of the Eldar; he’s Edain and _weak_. He sighs and concedes despite his greater skills and retreats to his quarters, where all the armour peels away from tender skin. He has servants to help him with that now. Or the offering of them, at least. He always ushers them away. To have _his own quarters_ is a luxury, and he still feels like a thrall himself some days, uncomfortable to have others do such simple things as undress him.

He means to bathe himself—his victory is hard-fought, and he’s somewhat sore for it. Mostly, he just enjoys the odd moment to _relax_. He wanders away from his bedroom in just his tunic and breeches, bare feet cold against the stone. The curtains are drawn around his bathing chambers, and, at first, he hesitates, thinking it may be being cleaned or that Idril might offer him surprise—but she’s meant to be spending the day with her father. When he draws the curtains aside, he finds the tub already pulled to the center of the room and filled with water, still hot enough to billow steam. 

Voronwë glances over, embedded in the bath, the top of his lithe chest exposed and his knees bent to fit. The fading daylight through the high windows and the glow of several candles washes his dark skin in soft light and a pale shine. His black hair is gathered over one shoulder, twisted into a thick braid, his fingers stilling at the end of it. His bright eyes drop to Tuor’s feet and flicker slowly up him. A loving smile stretches across Voronwë’s mouth. Tuor’s transfixed in the doorway, awestruck with his friend’s beauty. 

Tuor’s found Voronwë breathtaking from the start, but he’s at his height in _water_ , and the gentle lap of it around his luscious frame is a tantalizing call. Tuor drifts closer, absently tugging the curtains back behind him, and comes to stand just an arm’s length away. Before Tuor can recover enough to speak, Voronwë finishes his braid and bends, pulling his knees closer so that his cheek can rest on them. He looks up at Tuor with such sweetness and asks, “Will you join me?”

“You are in the wrong chambers,” Tuor responds, tongue too thick for the amusement he wants to inflect. Voronwë just smiles all the sweeter.

“Your bath is larger than mine,” he smoothly counters, which is true of all Tuor’s things, despite his own protests. He’s honoured more than he deserves and appreciates that it’s strained their friendship none. “And I miss when we would once bathe together on the road. It may not have been long, but it was lasting.” Tuor couldn’t agree more.

He still finds himself shaking his head lightly and marveling. “I am still unused to the openness of elves.”

Voronwë lets out a lilting laugh, pretty and accented, before he suggests, “Send for your princess again, if you wish, and have her tell you for the hundredth time this is alright.”

Tuor doesn’t have to. “I know it is alright, it is just... _strange_.” Even the cruel men Tuor grew up with maintained some semblance of one man and one woman, and the concept of one elf being with whomever he should choose, so long as he’s honest with it, is still foreign. Yet they’ve discussed it many times, and seeing Idril with other elves doesn’t bring Tuor the jealousy he would expect, and him with Voronwë...

He seems to be destined for a place at Voronwë’s side. And he can’t deny he missed seeing Voronwë this way, bare and wet for him, just the two of them in whatever small cave or grotto, though then with earth instead of metal and under open stars. When he takes too long to answer, Voronwë reaches out to stick one long finger into the waistband of Tuor’s breeches, and Tuor lets himself be tugged closer before he surrenders. 

Voronwë’s silken robes are folded over on a table, but Tuor contents himself to strip his tunic from over his head and leave it with his breeches in a puddle on the floor. Voronwë attempts to draw his legs back, but Tuor gently pushes him the other way and slips behind him, finding the water still blissfully warm. His tub is also blessedly large enough to settle comfortably back and draw Voronwë to him, right into his lap, with enough room for all of their long limbs to tangle and fit. Voronwë squirms into place, drawing a hitch of breath from Tuor, and then he looks over his shoulder to pout and groan, “You should have sat before me; then I could wash you.”

“You have done that enough,” Tuor chuckles, amidst a flurry of fond memories, “but I delivered my message; I am not special anymore.”

“You will always be special,” Voronwë scolds. His grin twists, eyes falling half closed, as he reaches back, gripping at Tuor’s bicep, to purr, “Besides, I like any excuse to enjoy those broad muscles of yours.” 

A shiver runs down Tuor’s spine. He still doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve such a gift, but he’s eternally grateful for it. He reaches below the water, along either side of Voronwë’s supple figure, and wraps his thicker arms tight around Voronwë’s middle. He holds Voronwë close against him and means to tease about other things, but the brush of wet, warm skin, touching all the way from collarbone to mid thigh, halts him. Finally, he murmurs just, “You are welcome to give me another massage after our bath, if you wish.” But he would like to return the favour just as much; Voronwë’s body fits so perfectly in his arms and feels so wondrous under his hands. He has to nose his way past Voronwë’s braid to reach Voronwë’s round shoulder, but then he bends forward and presses in a kiss that lasts longer than he means. 

The second he retreats, Voronwë twists back to peck his nose and rocks backwards, deliberately squirming. Voronwë’s plush bottom drags across Tuor’s crotch, his cock stirring. It was already semi-hard from the sight of Voronwë alone, but Voronwë fidgets, forcing the water to splash and Tuor’s breath to come more ragged, until Tuor’s shaft is completely erect and nestled between Voronwë’s round cheeks. Voronwë seems to squeeze around him, and Tuor, burying a moan in Voronwë’s shoulder, wonders why they ever left that first bath together at all. 

Arching back, Voronwë tilts his mouth to Tuor’s ear and purrs, “You know, I do so love to be taken in the water.” Tuor does know. He could never forget. But the blunt invitation has him broiling hot under his skin, and he pulls back just so he can run his teeth along the shell of Voronwë’s pointed ear. The first time Tuor touched it, he marveled at how delicate it was, how cute and exotic, and he enjoys tracing the shape with his tongue just as much now. Voronwë, always sensitive to it, whimpers lightly and tilts to give Tuor better access. Voronwë’s entire body is a piece of art that Tuor’s studied in great detail, yet playing it never grows old, and Voronwë’s music feels new each time. Tuor licks and nips and _tastes_ Voronwë’s ear, neck, down to his jaw, until he gasps and moans, “ _Tuor_...”

“I want to look at you when you ride me,” Tuor answers, huskier than he means—he sounds as _hungry_ as he is. Voronwë nods and obliges. He leans forward, parting their bodies, and Tuor feels a stab of regret until Voronwë shuffles around, coming to face Tuor properly and sit back in his lap, knee to either side of the metal rim. Voronwë places either hand on Tuor’s chest, glancing down to feel and squeeze, before dragging higher to stretch both arms over Tuor’s neck. Then he straightens, as though for Tuor’s approval, and Tuor murmurs, “ _Perfect_.”

Not the type to preen but clearly pleased, Voronwë returns, “The feeling is mutual.”

Tuor can’t stop grinning. He tilts his head up, and Voronwë seems to understand, ducking down to bring their mouths properly together. The first is a light, chaste kiss, the second stronger, the third pressing hard with Tuor’s tongue dabbing at Voronwë’s lips. Voronwë opens for him, mewling and sucking him in, meeting him back, and then they’re kissing messily and over and over, while Voronwë’s hands trail down his chest and get to work. 

Elves are better at this, it seems. Tuor gets consumed in _Voronwë_ , kissing and tasting him, holding on to his hips and trying not to squeeze too hard, but Voronwë can coordinate. He can lave at Tuor’s tongue and still line their shafts up to one another, wrap around them and give one long, firm stroke that leaves Tuor shuddering and desperate for _more_. Instead, Voronwë’s hands leave a moment later, but Tuor doesn’t complain. He knows where they’ve gone. He slides his own fingers, spread to feel _everything_ , back and down Voronwë’s round ass. He takes greedy fistfuls of Voronwë’s tight cheeks and kneads them, alternatively spreading them apart and simply playing, knowing Voronwë is busy working himself in between. Once, when Tuor gathers enough wherewithal, he strays down Voronwë’s crack, just to find three of Voronwë’s long fingers buried in his ass and pet the brim. Tuor means to stop after, let Voronwë get to business, but instead he finds himself taking hold of Voronwë’s thin wrist and drawing it in and out, fucking Voronwë on his own fingers. It makes Voronwë come apart in Tuor’s mouth, keening greater than ever and clinging to him with one free hand. It takes a few tries for Tuor to stop, but he does when the brush of his cock against Voronwë’s stomach and shaft is too much. He’s already growing close, and he wants to finish _inside_ Voronwë, and he knows he can. 

He pulls Voronwë’s hand away as he goes, drawing it around, and Voronwë must agree he’s ready, because he lifts up on his knees. It takes him higher out of the water, the whole of his torso free and glistening down to the dark patch of hair above his cock. He spreads his legs as wide as the tub allows, reaching down to bring Tuor into place, and then he returns both hands to Tuor’s shoulders and waits, as though allowing Tuor the honour. 

For a few seconds, Tuor breathes it in. He eyes all of Voronwë’s handsome body, stunning face and captivating eyes. Then he tightens his grip in Voronwë’s sides and pushes Voronwë down, right onto the head of his cock. It pops inside with a wet squelch and a ripple of the water, heightened by Voronwë’s sudden gasp and shudder. It’s a burst of ripe pleasure that forces Tuor to gasp and pump his hips higher before he means to, impaling Voronwë more. Voronwë whimpers but takes it, ducks forward and rocks his own hips, pressing lower down, taking more of Tuor, and he meets Tuor halfway on every thrust. Together, they bring their bodies as close as possible, braving through Tuor’s girth and length and the incredible tightness of Voronwë’s body. His walls are exquisitely soft and stifling hot. More than once, the pleasure becomes too much, and Tuor has to stop to catch his breath.

Then, finally, Voronwë wriggles to the base, Tuor completely sheathed inside him. They share a frantic, adoring kiss, full of eager tongue. Tuor wraps one arm completely around Voronwë’s lithe middle and lifts the other hand to fist in Voronwë’s dark hair, right through the braid, and Voronwë tangles his fingers in Tuor’s golden mane, setting in right away to a pace just as fast. 

Voronwë is the one to begin, lifting up and falling down, but Tuor quickly surges to meet him, bucking up just as hard. The water sloshes messily about them and likely splashes to the floor on certain thrusts, but Tuor pays no mind to it and instead claws at Voronwë’s body. Voronwë feels _rapturous_ , always does, even better in the water: it’s a familiar spark of something personal, intimate, a reminder of the way they met and the paths they followed. Voronwë’s body feels just as fresh and exhilarating as it did the first time Tuor explored it with his hands, his mouth. He fills Voronwë on one end with his cock and on the other with his tongue, and Voronwë takes both and gives as much back, writhing in Tuor’s grip. He clenches himself around his prize and battles in Tuor’s mouth, fingers tugging lightly at Tuor’s scalp. The air fills quickly with the lewd slapping sounds of skin on skin and their disheveled breathing, mostly Tuor’s panting and moaning and Voronwë’s beautiful, breathy gasps. Even in the water, they quickly reek of sex, and Tuor would have it no other way. 

Their love is neither brutal nor gentle. It goes at a steady rhythm, strong until the end. They don’t interrupt with words, because they’ve said everything before, and all Tuor can think right now is how right Voronwë feels around him, with him. Every kiss is better than the last. Tuor savours it, revels in it, fills Voronwë up over and over, until he has nothing left, and he cries out into Voronwë’s mouth, spilling himself inside. His grip around Voronwë’s hips tightens for it, and he holds Voronwë down, still pounding himself out. The kisses still come. 

Voronwë takes several thrusts after Tuor’s finished, writhing in Tuor’s lap, and Tuor grabs and pumps his cock under the water to help. He winds up splashing Tuor’s chest and gasping loud, then shuddering and falling forward. Tuor’s there to catch him and slump back against the rim. The water squeezes between them to clean him off and dilute their mess. Tuor feels dizzy, heavy, but satiated and so satisfied he can hardly breathe. This is everything he ever wanted. 

It’s everything, even if the water’s grown a little cold. Tuor can feel the familiar wrinkling in his own flesh, but Voronwë is as smooth as ever. He still rests, spent in Tuor’s arms, head resting against Tuor’s, and then he sighs, “Do you think I could trouble a great lord of Gondolin with company for the night?”

Tuor snorts and shifts. Voronwë, with a little grunt, lifts off him, and he slips free, though Voronwë settles right back atop him afterwards. Tired, he answers, “I would have nothing without your help, and you are always welcome by my side.” Voronwë makes a happy humming noise, for once not fighting Tuor on his worth. Tuor confesses in an afterthought: “Idril has mentioned that she would like to see as much, actually.”

“Me in your bed?” Voronwë asks, laughing and straightening up. Tuor shakes his head. 

“You in me.” 

Then Voronwë really _laughs_ and rewards him with another kiss, before rising from the water to fetch a towel.


End file.
